


The Untraditional Pair

by Caenea



Series: The Winterfell Reunions [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crisis of confidence, Domestic Bickering, Domestic arguments, Earmarking drawers, F/M, Fluff, Gendrya - Freeform, Sexual Content, Smut, Wedding Day, oh there's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 17:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Arya barges into her brother’s chambers to tell him some rather startling news, and to invite him to her wedding...





	The Untraditional Pair

**Author's Note:**

> I am here for the Stark girls making their own choices and I will not stop until D&D give us what we deserve. Soooo.... I’ll probably never stop. Story serves as a direct sequel to “The Blacksmith’s Assassin” and “Intricacies”, as well as being the seventh instalment of Winterfell Reunions.

Arya knocks once, a perfunctory knock, more a courtesy than an actual request for entry. She turns the handle and goes in, the comfortable weight of Needle slapping against her thigh. She’s not at all surprised to find her brother isn’t alone – the silver hair of the Dragon Queen is catching the firelight. Arya looks at her thoughtfully even as Jon looks up from his desk to smile at her.

                “Are you busy?” she asks, turning her attention to her brother.

                “I’m always busy, but not too busy for you,” he says. “Sit down?” he asks, gesturing at the spare chair opposite Daenerys. Arya takes it, swinging her booted feet onto the table between them and smiling at her.

                “Daenerys Targaryen,” she acknowledges her. Daenerys smiles.

                “Arya Stark.”

                “Hope I haven’t interrupted,” Arya continues. “Bran’s been muttering about needing to see you two.”

                “Has he? Is that why you came?”

                “No. I need to invite you to a wedding.”

                “Another one?” Jon says, raising his eyebrows at her. “Who is it this time?”

                “Me,” she says.

 

The response is most satisfying. Jon chokes on a mouthful of ale and turns red, his eyes widening.

                “You?” he gasps out, once he’s managed to spit out or swallow what was left of the ale. Arya smirks.

                “And Gendry.”

                “Gendry?” Jon bleats, gawking at her. Daenerys is smiling to herself, watching Arya as she remains supremely calm.

                “Yes, Gendry. This counts as your invitation. I spoke to the Maester, he’s going to hold the ceremony in the Godswood tonight.”

                “Tonight?” he shouts. “But – we’d need to plan!”

                “Plan for what?” Arya asks, looking at him with a genuinely baffled air.

                “For – for cloaks! For your dress! A dinner!” Arya squints at him.

                “Have we met?” she demands. “I’m not wearing a damn dress. He’s got a cloak, I’m sure Sansa will say that I can use her cloak from her wedding, and we don’t need a dinner. Everyone will have had dinner anyway, unless you’re not planning to eat until midnight.”

                “I – he’s – you’re –“

                “Is he alright?” Arya demands of Daenerys, jerking her head towards her brother.

                “I think he might be a little confused,” the Dragon Queen answers, smiling. “I can talk to him, if you like?”

                “Please do,” Arya says, standing up and adjusting her sword belt. “Tell him that if he’d like to give me away, as he did for Sansa, it’s an Old Gods ceremony and he should meet me in the Godswood after dinner is over. And you’re welcome too,” she adds, belatedly. Daenerys smiles.

                “Thank you. I should be honoured to attend.” Arya nods, before she walks out of the room to find her sister.

 

Sansa only smiles when her sister informs her of the wedding, and promises to be there. She offers to cut down a dress for her, confident she could get it done in time. Arya looks at her.

                “I thought I’d just wear this,” she says, gesturing at her tunic coat and leather jerkin. Sansa looks her over, and Arya gets the impression of being scrutinised.

                “Have you nothing – cleaner?” Arya looks down at herself, and frowns when she sees the mud that has covered her boots and splashed her tunic coat.

                “Hmm.”

                “Give the boots to me, and put your feet before the fire. You’ll not make a bride with a red nose and cough.” Arya does as she’s asked, and Sansa goes to the door, calling loudly until a servant appears. “Have these brushed clean, and shined,” she orders. “And quickly. Leave them outside the door when they’re finished.” She turns back to Arya and smiles. “Give me the tunic – what do you have on under it?” Arya struggles out of the tunic-coat, revealing her linen shirts. Sansa drags a fur off her bed and hands it to her. “Wrap that round you.”

 

In the warmth of the fire, Arya watches her sister brush away the dried-on mud, wiping at the more stubborn spots with a dampened cloth. Finally, Sansa shakes it out and examines it closely.     

                “There,” she says approvingly, holding it out to her sister. “Much better. Will you be wearing your sword-belt?” Arya nods her head, smiling. She hopes Sansa can’t tell that her heart is racing inside her chest, that her belly feels full of warmth, that she can barely sit still with excitement.

                “The Maester said it would be acceptable. I won’t take the dagger though. Too many memories on that blade.”

                “I see,” Sansa says softly, looking at Arya with a softness that makes her squirm internally. To dispel the moment, Arya speaks again.

                “Can I use your maiden cloak?” she asks, and Sansa looks surprised.

                “Of course you can.”  She gets up again and goes to her wardrobe, and Arya sees that it no longer contains just her dresses. Jerkins and a man’s coat hang in there too and with a jolt Arya realises that Tyrion must have moved into her sister’s room. Somehow she hadn’t thought of that, that Gendry would abandon the cupboard-like space he’d been assigned and move in to her room. She finds that she likes the idea of their jerkins hanging side-by-side in the cupboard, and their boots put before the fire together to dry. She likes the idea of Needle resting against the wall, with Gendry’s warhammer alongside it. Sansa is shaking out the cloak and frowning, and Arya jerks back to the present. “Stand up,” she commands her sister, and Arya obeys on the word. Sansa swings the cloak around her shoulders.

                “It’s too big,” Arya points out helpfully, and Sansa sighs.

                “I can see that. Keep it on for a minute,” she orders, and disappears out the door. Arya is left with the cloak trailing round her feet. Sansa’s mirror is propped against the wall, and she gathers the cloak carefully in her arm to approach it.

 

What she sees sends her spirits down with a bump. The cloak is fine, super-fine in fact. And when she pairs it with her tunic coat, leather jerkin and sword, the picture is ridiculous. Arya feels like she’s playing at dress-up. Impatiently, and with no small amount of private disappointment, she unfastens the cloak and discards it, draping over the foot of Sansa’s bed. She returns to her seat by the fire, watching the flames dance. The door opens, and admits Sansa again, this time accompanied by Missandei.

                “Oh, I wanted to show Missandei the cloak,” Sansa says. A rustle tells Arya she’s picked it up. “See if we’d be able to shorten it in time.”

                “I’ll wear my own,” Arya says shortly, not looking round. She doesn’t need to see them to know the two of them are exchanging glances. “It’s black, so it’ll do as our colours.”

                “You don’t like the cloak?” Missandei asks.

                “It’s a lovely cloak,” Arya answers. “But it isn’t me, is it? I was never one for pretty things.” Missandei comes round into her line of vision.

                “Stand please,” she asks, and Arya heaves herself back to her feet. Missandei swings the cloak around her shoulders again, and stands back critically. “You are right. In this style, the cloak does not suit. You are wearing this?”

                “Yes,” Arya answers. Missandei unfastens the cloak and whips it away.

                “I can fix it,” she says. “If the Lady Sansa can spare the time to help me, we can adapt the cloak.”

                “Of course,” Sansa answers. “Arya, the boy brought your boots back. They’re outside. Put them on – do not scuff them – and we’ll sort this out. Away with you,” she says, pointing at the door.

 

Arya goes, but not without trepidation. Under orders not to scuff her boots – which she has to admit have been improved tenfold by the good polish they’ve undergone – she returns to her room, only to find it occupied. Gendry is sitting with his feet up before the fire, as if they’re already married and he’s moved himself in. He opens one eye when she bangs the door behind her, and then closes it again when he sees it’s nobody likely to question his presence. Arya hops about on one foot to remove her boots, even as he speaks.

                “I’m hiding from Tyrion,” he says lazily. “Figured I’d be safe here.” Despite the snakes filling her belly, Arya has to smile at him.

                “Why are you hiding?”

                “He keeps giving me advice about wedding nights,” Gendry answers. “Didn’t think it was wise telling him he’d missed the mark on it, so I made an excuse.”

                “Probably a good choice,” she says, taking the chair opposite his and putting her own feet up, resting them on his legs. “I’ve just been dismissed by Sansa and Missandei.” Gendry opens both eyes at that, and surveys her.

                “What did they do to you? You look pale.”

                “The cloak for the ceremony,” she answers, tipping her head back. “I’m using the one Sansa used but they need to cut it down.”

                “Because you’re a short arse,” Gendry says, and laughs when she kicks his foot. “You’ll have to settle for my own cloak, I’m afraid, as I don’t have fancy back-up cloaks lying around for marrying castle ladies.”

                “At this point, I just want to be married and get it done. I never dreamed of a wedding, not like Sansa did. I never imagined a feast or a ceremony, or thought about what my maiden cloak would look like. I never spent hours daydreaming about the dress or the dinner or the guest-list.”

                “Nor did I really,” he says, opening his eyes for good this time. He reaches out and drags her chair closer to him, pulling her feet into his lap. His warm hands wrap around her instep and a thumb presses into the ball of her foot. She sighs in contentment. “We could always grab the Hound and nip into the Godswood now,” he says, grinning at her. “Get it done.”

                “Sansa would have me killed,” Arya says. “So as tempting as it is, we’d better stick to the plan.” She luxuriates for a moment in the warmth, with his hands rubbing her feet gently. “Tyrion’s already moved his things into Sansa’s room,” she says randomly.

                “That’s the general way of things, when you get married.”

                “Are you going to move in here?”

                “You’re lucky I haven’t already started,” he says, and she laughs. “I’ve picked out a corner for my warhammer and decided which drawers I want and everything. And this is going to be my chair.”

                “Have you decided what side of the bed you want?” she asks him, her nerves dissipating with every swipe of his thumb.

                “Side nearest the door.”

                “I like that side.”

                “Fight me,” he answers, and she laughs aloud. “How about we say whoever gets in first each night gets the door side?”

                “Fine,” she answers, and then there’s a knock at the door. They exchange glances, and Arya turns her head. “Who is it?”

                “Me,” Jon’s voice says. Gendry jumps up and goes pale.

                “Under the bed, idiot,” she hisses, and he slides under at once. She waits for him to be completely hidden before she answers, and Jon strides in.

                “Thought I heard voices in here,” Jon says, suspiciously.

                “No, it’s just me,” she answers, grinning. “What can I do for you?”

                “I’m looking for Sansa, but she seems to have disappeared. And Daenerys wanted Missandei, who also seems to have disappeared.”

                “They were in Sansa’s room, doing something about the maiden cloak for tonight,” Arya answers. “I’m under orders not to scuff my boots up – Sansa had them polished.”

                “I tried there, but they aren’t there now. So then I started looking for Gendry, and all Tyrion could say was that he’d seen him earlier but then he’d disappeared too.” Arya shrugs, hoping she looks innocent.

                “Haven’t seen him. What do you want with him?”

                “To have a brotherly conversation,” Jon says, glaring at her.

                “Jon,” Arya says, warningly.

                “In the absence of our father, it’s my job,” he says, pointedly. “So if you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.” He puts his hands on her shoulders then, and looks down at her. “He’d be proud of you,” he says, throatily, and Arya finds she has to swallow before she answers.

                “Thank you.”

                “I’m proud of you. I never knew when I had the blacksmith make you a Needle; you’d do so much and be so much. You’ve found your place in this world, and made yourself your own person. You’ve paid a high price for it, I know, but sometimes things are worth the cost. You’ve become a woman in my absence, and you’ve done it on your terms.” The lump in Arya’s throat has become uncomfortable. “I hope Gendry knows what he’s getting into,” Jon finishes, smiling now. Arya half-laughs, half-chokes, and falls into his arms and he hugs her tight, his arms around her shoulders, hers around his waist.

                “I miss Father,” she admits, her head buried in Jon’s tunic-coat, voice muffled.

                “Me too,” he says. “But this isn’t wedding day talk, Arya. You’re a bride, and you should be happy. I’ll meet you outside the clearing in the Godswood.”

                “Thank you,” she says, sincerely.

                “Who have you invited?” Jon asks.

                “You, Sansa, Bran, Daenerys, Brienne, Podrick, the Hound, Tyrion and the groom,” she says promptly, and he laughs.

                “I’ll leave you to things then,” he says, giving her a last, fierce hug. “And if you do see any of those three, tell them we’re looking for them.” She sees him out and leans against the door for a moment, before she crosses to the bed and bends down to meet Gendry’s eyes.

                “You can come out now,” she says, grinning.

                “That was too close,” he says. “I’m going to the forge.”

                “Probably best,” she says, and smiles mischievously at him. “Kiss me first?” He gives her a smile of his own, before he bends his head to kiss her smile. She pokes her head out into the corridor and checks it’s clear before she throws him out.

 

It’s a long day, as she watches the snow and finally calls for a bath to be brought and filled. Sansa pitches along as they’re rolling the tub in and filling it.     

                “We finished the cloak,” she announces, even as Arya is stripping out of her clothes to get into the bath. “You can’t see it until it’s time though, and I told them to bring our dinner up here,” she continues, as Arya starts scrubbing at her legs with the cloth.

                “Why?”

                “Because traditionally, the first time you should see your groom on the day of your wedding is at the ceremony. We can’t quite do that, but at least you can have dinner separately.”

                “Did Jon find you?” Arya asks, lathering soap to wash her face.

                “Yes, he wanted to talk about the food reserves,” Sansa answers. “But that’s hardly cheerful conversation for a bride, so we won’t talk of it now. Shall I help you wash your hair?” Arya looks at her, on the verge of saying she’s been washing her own hair for years now, and hasn’t had a handmaiden to do it for her. But instead, she finds herself nodding, and Sansa smiles, kneeling by the tub.

                “That doesn’t smell like soap,” she says, as the scent of roses reaches her nose.

                “It isn’t your soap, it’s rose water and soap. I know pretty things were never for you, but it’s your wedding day. There’s no reason you can’t smell nice.”

                “Are you saying I normally don’t smell nice?” Arya asks, laughing. Sansa giggles too, and Arya feels the wash of the water being poured over her hair.

                “You smell fine. Just now, you smell better.” There’s a little silence then, and then there’s no trace of amusement in her sister’s voice. “Do you know what will happen tonight?” she asks her sister, and Arya splashes water to make sure her eyes are clear before she opens them to look at her sister.

                “After the wedding, you mean? Yes, I know.”

                “I can – I can tell you things. If you want to know them, I mean.” There’s a flush to Sansa’s cheeks, and Arya is absolutely certain it must match her own. All told, Arya thinks this might be the strangest day of her entire life, and that really is saying something.

                “I think I know them,” she mutters, drawing her knees up to rest her chin on them. “I have spent the best part of the last five years with men for company – some of which time they thought I was a boy.”

                “Ah.” Sansa occupies herself with drying her hands and Arya scrubs at her arms with great goodwill, both of them avoiding the others eye. “Are you nervous?” Sansa asks quietly, and Arya’s head comes up as she considers this.

                “No, I don’t think so. I want to marry him – I know he wants to marry me.”

                “I didn’t mean about that part of it.”

                “Oh, Sansa – I know what you’re trying to do, and I do appreciate it, but would it help if I told you that you’re a week too late?” Sansa blushes so red she temporarily resembles a flame, but nods frantically.

                “Yes, it would – and I never thought I’d say that.” They fall back into silence and Arya reaches for a drying sheet, standing up to wrap herself in it. Sansa sits her by the fire, arming herself with a second sheet and rubbing roughly at the black hair covering her sister’s head. “So – was it – good?” There’s a beat of shock and then both of them start laughing. Arya reaches out to take her sister’s hand and Sansa rests her cheek on the rough black head for a moment. Somehow the touches say it all, says everything there is to say and more that could never have been put into words.

 

Jon meets her at the edge of the clearing, and Arya can see them gathered on the far side of the Heart Tree, with Gendry standing alone before it. Jon doesn’t try and take her arm; they walk side by side as comrades. It’s right for them, and Arya does not envy the way his hand covered Sansa’s at her wedding. Missandei and Sansa have performed some miracle of tailoring, and cut down the cloak to make a half-cloak, lined at collar and clasp with the black furs. Needle’s pommel is shining with polish, slung from it’s home at her hip with it’s usual helm.

 

There’s no priest for an Old God ceremony, just the ritual conversation.

                “I, Jon Snow, am here as kinsman to the bride.”

                “I, Arya Stark, am here as the bride.”

                “I, Gendry Waters, am here as the groom.” Jon smiles, and joins their hands, turning for the final time to his little sister.

                “Do you, Arya Stark, accept Gendry Waters as your husband?”

                “I take this man,” she says, smiling at him. His eyes are bluer than the Braavosi skies, and something behind her navel jerks as she looks at him. He takes her hand, his own smile nearly blinding, and they kneels before the Heart Tree.

 

She’s no way of knowing what he prays for, but she prays for a short war, a positive resolution – and that she will be enough for Gendry, and that they will be happy despite their untraditional natures. When she looks up, Gendry is looking at her, and she nods. They stand up, and he fumbles with the clasps of her cloak, muttering a dark oath when he has to struggle with it. She smiles at him when he throws it in Jon’s general direction, and undoes his own. It’s yellow, which will do as Baratheon colours even if his name is Waters. He ties it round her shoulders and bends his head, claiming a distinctly untraditional kiss. Arya seems to remember that there’s a bit now where he should carry her to a feast, but there is no feast for them. For all that, though, she’s suddenly been swept into his arms to hoots from the Hound and laughter from the rest.

 

He carries her back to her bedroom – their bedroom, she realises with a little thrill. He lays her down and grins at her.

                “I get the door side,” he whispers, and she laughs. She throws her full weight at him, and rolls them onto the far side of the bed, straddling him now.

                “You told me to fight you for it, but I’ve got a better way,” she says. She bends down, kissing him, and his hands slide into her hair.

 

Sword belts and cloaks are never easy things to remove in a fit of passion, but somehow they manage it and she straddles him again, her eyes glinting in the torch light.

                “Let me,” she whispers, even though she doesn’t know really what to do. But between them, he helps her, and fills her to the point where she can’t think quite straight, where she can’t see anything but sky-blue eyes and dark hair that could belong to either of them. His hands grip her hips in a way that makes her think she might bruise, and she finds she does not care at all. Her name is on his lips like a prayer when he touches her in a way that temporarily renders her breathless and blind.

 

She comes back to herself beside him, wrapped tight in his arms – on the door side of the bed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no self control at all, it would appear, but I do think this will be the last installment for a little while.
> 
> There is currently an open prompt on TUMBLR and TWITTER though, for what you might like to see from the next installment, so please do feel free to drop by!
> 
> https://captain-caenea.tumblr.com/
> 
> https://twitter.com/captaincaenea
> 
> Feedback and support has only fuelled this fire, so I hope you all appreciate the result :)


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